He swears he’s lowkey, but he knows exactly what he is doing.

Every time he throws on those briefs, the ones I told him he looked dangerous in, he starts moving different. He stands in the hallway longer. He starts acting like stretching is part of his daily routine. This whole man becomes a problem on purpose.

And me? I act like I'm not looking. Like I havet things to do. Dishes to finish. A garden to tend to. But nah. I’m clockin’ him. Every flex. Every shift. Every smirk when he catches me glancing.

And that’s the dance we do. Always this low simmer between us. Power shifting back and forth in the quietest ways. He walks past me with that slow confidence, no words, just presence. And my whole body already speaking fluent surrender. Without even trying, he gets me wide open. And he knows it. That’s what makes it worse.

We don’t say much in those moments. We don’t have to. His walk says it all. “Yeah, you talk slick, but I wear your favorite briefs. I don’t need to ask for your attention, I collect it.”

And he’s right.

It’s wild how something so small, just fabric and attitude can shift the whole energy in a house. He isn't loud about it. Just focused. Intentional. Masculine without needing to posture. That kind of steady power that makes you want to drop whatever you’re doing and show appreciation. And believe me I do.

I swear the man is a walking weapon in those things. But the crazy part? I still feel safe. Owned, but honored. Like no matter how much control he has, it’s always rooted in love. In trust. In this deep knowing between us that we are just who we are, and that’s what makes it hit different.

So yeah. When he puts those briefs on? I already know what time it is. I don’t mind folding under the pressure. I just like pretending I might not.